


feather-flesh will shriekingly fall

by hakyeonni



Series: little incubus [16]
Category: VIXX
Genre: 17th Century, 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood and Violence, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Memories, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 13:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13101288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakyeonni/pseuds/hakyeonni
Summary: this is the end, hakyeon thinks, staring into taekwoon's hateful black eyes and raising his dagger, the circle around them humming with ancient magic.the end.





	feather-flesh will shriekingly fall

**Author's Note:**

> title from _mein teil_ by rammstein:
> 
> a cry will ascend to heaven / it will cut through hosts of angels / feather-flesh will shriekingly fall / from the top of the clouds onto my childhood

“Are you sure about this?” Hakyeon asks doubtfully, looking between the dagger in his hand and then at Jaehwan, who is shifting restlessly.

“No,” Jaehwan replies curtly, and shrugs, his wings rustling. “But we don’t have any choice.”

_And there it is again_ , Hakyeon thinks faintly as he raises the dagger and takes a step closer. _The illusion of choice_. It’s a thread that’s cropped up so many times over his life—from the very moment he was made an immortal against his will—and it’s grating to be reminded of it now, even if Jaehwan didn’t mean it like that. “Okay,” he starts, shaking himself out of his grim thoughts. “What do I do?”

“You, um,” Jaehwan replies, taking the dagger from him and gesturing in the air. “Put it at the base of his wings and, um, slide up. It should happen… easily. Like a knife through butter.”

Hakyeon just watches him evenly. With his eyes black it’s hard to read his expression—although he is getting better at doing it now—but his teeth are gritted and his wings are tucked close to his back like he’s worried Hakyeon might actually lunge for them. It’s clear that this is hard for him to even imagine, let alone vocalise; it’s fascinating in a macabre way. If this is how Jaehwan reacts to it just being talked about, Hakyeon doesn’t want to think about how Taekwoon will react when he actually chops one off.

“So,” he says, taking the dagger, “like this?” He turns Jaehwan around, placing one hand on the arch of the wing nearest to him to hold it still, pressing the dagger to the base of his wing where they meet his back with the other hand. Instantly Jaehwan hisses, a primal, feral sound that chills Hakyeon down to the bone. It’s a sound that says _fuck off and don’t touch me again_ , and Hakyeon knows that it’s instinctual but it still hurts that it’s directed at him regardless.

“Yes, like that,” Jaehwan spits, whirling out of Hakyeon’s way and shifting his wings away entirely. Sensing Hakyeon’s (irrational, he knows it’s stupid) hurt, he attempts a smile, but it’s rather grim; he’s trembling all over, and Hakyeon can feel small waves of power emanating from him, pulsating and familiar. “I know you’d never hurt me… but even feeling a knife there feels wrong, down to my soul. Like all my power was being taken away from me. Again.”

Not even wanting to touch the damned thing, Hakyeon tosses the dagger onto the sofa and sighs, putting his face in his hands. “I suppose that’s a good thing,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like it is. “He’ll feel that but… worse.”

Neither of them say anything further. Hakyeon lets Jaehwan fold him into his arms, holding him close, but he can’t help thinking that even if he does manage to get close enough to cut off one or both of Taekwoon’s wings, he will not survive Taekwoon’s reaction.

But then, that’s the exact eventuality he’s preparing for.

//

“You’re going to have to let go of me at some point, you know.”

Sanghyuk speaks this rather calmly considering Hongbin is clinging to him like an oversized limpet and seems disinclined to let him go anytime soon. He’s been like that since they came back from the beach, really: unwilling to let Sanghyuk out of his sight, reluctant to be more than an arm's-length away. It would make sense if it was borne of hysteria, but instead Hongbin is unerringly calm, eerily so. It’s starting to freak Sanghyuk out a bit.

“I don’t want to,” Hongbin whispers, and for the first time in twenty-four hours Sanghyuk can sense the fear in his voice. Turning in his arms, Sanghyuk links his hands around Hongbin’s neck and pulls him in close to kiss him, softly and gently. His desperation—quiet and unerring as it is—is readable in his face, and Sanghyuk can’t stand it.

“We’ll need to feed,” he sighs into Hongbin’s lips, knowing that as much as he doesn’t want to leave his apartment right now, it’s a necessity. “Sooner rather than later, probably.”

Hongbin’s fangs run out a little bit, and Sanghyuk just watches them, mesmerised. “I don’t want to,” he whines, again, and something in Sanghyuk melts.

They’ll have to leave the apartment soon—they really _do_ need to feed, and Sanghyuk wants to stock up on vodka, considering whomever survives will most likely want some—but for the moment he understands; Hongbin doesn’t want to break the spell of tranquility that’s settled over them since they got home. So instead he just sighs and wonders why, time and time again, he seems to slip into the role of protector amongst beings that are eons older than him. But there’s no use fighting it and, anyway, he doesn’t want to. Hongbin being so clingy like this allows him to buy into the delusion that he really is needed, and, right now, with his maker somewhere very far away—both literally and figuratively; Hakyeon’s mind is a maelstrom of emotions that Sanghyuk is consciously trying to distance himself from—it’s nice to feel that someone wants him.

“Last time I was over at Hakyeon’s I stole one of his bath bombs,” he whispers, poking at Hongbin’s fang with a fingertip. “Wanna have a bath?”

Hongbin wrinkles his nose—the smell must be overpowering, Sanghyuk supposes—but then a light flicks on behind his eyes, a light that’s been missing since they left the beach, and he grins, slowly. “Once an incubus, always an incubus,” he murmurs.

Pretending to be incensed, Sanghyuk smacks him on the shoulder (making his palm sting in the process) and shakes his head reproachfully. “I just suggested a bath. You’re the one being a dirty old man and making it into something it’s not—”

“Oh?” Before Sanghyuk can even move Hongbin has thrown him over his shoulder and speeds to the bathroom, ignoring how Sanghyuk instantly starts writhing. “You’re the incubus, not me. I see through your wiles—”

A struggle ensues. Hongbin wins, of course, because Sanghyuk simply does not have the energy to shift, but they end up in the shower, the water beating down over their still-clothed bodies, the bath completely forgotten as they make out furiously like teenagers. Letting their desperation bleed through like this—in touches that hurt nearly as much as they soothe, in kisses that sear the both of them down to the bone—is easier than saying out loud that they’re both terrified, because neither of them wants to admit it.

//

Wonshik wakes with the words of the summoning spell on his tongue like a prayer, falls asleep with his lips still moving as he mumbles them. It’s all he’s done since he got home. He fed, and fed again, and again, and again until he was blood-drunk and the world spun around him and it was easy to forget that he was about to summon an angel once more. A creature more powerful than all of them combined. A being that has existed since the _beginning of time_ , a concept Wonshik’s previously-mortal brain just cannot hope to comprehend. Even if killing him is possible—and Wonshik’s beginning to think it’s not, that Jaehwan’s lying to them—he doubts Hakyeon will be able to pull it off. And yet, and yet, it’s not like they have a choice, do they?

“O amate vero Domini,” he mutters as he fishes out a bag of blood from his fridge. “In orbem nostrum te arcesso.” He places the bag in the microwave and pushes the button for a minute. “Sale vinctum, lavendula sevocatum.” He watches the bag spin aimlessly around, tapping his nails on the counter. “Alis ad solem non iam pandatis pansis.”

And so it continues.

He’s halfway through yet another intonation when his phone rings and he picks it up without even thinking, meaning that whoever’s on the other end of the line is greeted with, “Sale vinctum—shit, hello?”

“Wonshik,” Hakyeon says, and the tinge of amusement in his voice could mean _anything_. Wonshik gave up long ago trying to separate Hakyeon’s numerous mental breakdowns from the last. They’ve all bled through into one long blur; whether it’s a permanent change or not he can’t be certain, and he isn’t sure he wants to know. “Memorising your words?”

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” He knows it’s pointless even as he’s speaking, because once Hakyeon gets an idea in his head that is the end of it. They’re the same in that way, one small thing they have in common amongst a sea of differences. “We can find some other way—”

“You sound just like Jaehwan,” Hakyeon replies, and it’s not a compliment. “I’ve told him. There is no other way. So please, for just this once, don’t argue.”

A long silence. Wonshik wars with the urge to do just that with the urge to listen to his friend—and the most horrible part of it all is, deep down, he knows Hakyeon is right. They’re running out of time and they’re running out of options. This will be their last chance to end it all, and if Hakyeon wants to be in the middle of the circle, it’s not really Wonshik’s place to stop him.

“Alright,” he says eventually, and the weight of that concession sits in the air between them, even though they’re miles apart. “What were you calling for?”

“For you to come around tomorrow night.” Wonshik can’t help it—a chill runs through him, desperate and deep, and sorrow grips him. But Hakyeon’s next words allow him to relax a little bit. “I’ve talked Jaehwan into giving us another day… so this is just, I don’t know, a party.”

Wonshik snorts. “Morbid.”

“Okay, not a party. Just all of us hanging out, like old times.” He pauses. “Actually, Sanghyuk will be there and he’ll probably bring hard liquor, so maybe it is a party.”

“Again, I say morbid.”

“Just be there,” Hakyeon sighs down the phone like Wonshik _won’t_ and then hangs up unceremoniously, leaving Wonshik staring at the ceiling, wondering where the hell they went so wrong.

//

Even though Wonshik was joking, it turns out he’s right—at least partially. Sanghyuk and Hongbin are the first to arrive but they’re both acting strange; Hongbin is creepily calm, clinging onto Sanghyuk’s hand like an anchor, and Sanghyuk has a dazed look in his eyes like he barely knows who he is. It’s only the bottle of vodka he has clutched in his hand that’s normal, but he doesn’t even crack it open, just leads Hongbin over to the sofa and sits down.

Hakyeon and Jaehwan share a long glance.

Wonshik arrives muttering the words of the spell under his breath and only stops when Hakyeon kicks him and tells him to knock it off because it’s creepy. He tries to make a joke of it—“what if you summon him right now?!”—but Wonshik just pales, like Hakyeon’s suggested he walk into the circle and proclaim his everlasting love to Taekwoon, and so he shuts up, resigned.

The silence between the five of them isn’t so much awkward as it is heavy, the air pregnant with memories and possibilities all at once, and it’s so stifling Hakyeon catches himself wishing Taekwoon would turn up just so they would _do_ something. Wonshik is staring off into the distance, Sanghyuk’s curled up in a ball with his head on Hongbin’s lap, and Hongbin’s stroking Sanghyuk’s hair absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. Hakyeon’s just about to stand up and order all of them to start talking, because they should be _happy_ this is all about to be over and _grateful_ Hakyeon’s volunteering to be the one in the thick of it, when Hongbin looks up at Jaehwan and starts to speak.

“So, Jaehwan hyung,” he says, and his voice is guarded, cautious. He flicks a glance at Wonshik out of the corner of his eye, but Wonshik just continues looking straight ahead. “What’s the best way to stab an angel with a sword?”

_That_ gets a reaction. Sanghyuk’s eyes snap open and he sits up so fast he’s just a blur, and then he’s got Hongbin by the shoulders and is shaking him frantically. Wonshik, snapping out of his stupor, turns to look at the two of them like he’s never seen them before in his life—and Jaehwan bursts out into laughter, shocking all of them most of all.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Hakyeon warns at the same time that Sanghyuk growls, “You’re not—” and Wonshik ends with a quiet, “No.”

“I’m not saying I’m going into the circle, Jesus!” Hongbin protests, his teeth knocking together as Sanghyuk continues shaking him. “Sanghyuk, get off—I was just _saying_. I’m curious. Is it a crime to be curious?”

“Yes,” Hakyeon and Wonshik answer in complete and utter unison.

They both regard each other evenly for a moment. There’s a small smile playing over Wonshik’s face; it’s the first time in a long time they’ve agreed on something, have spoken in sync, like they used to do all the time. Somewhat wistfully Hakyeon realises that in growing closer to Jaehwan he’s inadvertently grown apart from Wonshik, and that’s perhaps the saddest part of all of this mess.

From next to Hakyeon, Jaehwan shrugs, the rustling sound of his wings somehow comforting. “Have you used a sword before?”

Wonshik hauls himself off the sofa and rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe this!” he calls as he stalks into the kitchen, and then Hakyeon hears the bang of a cupboard opening and closing, the clink of a glass, and doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

“Yeah,” Hongbin replies, scrambling to his feet as Jaehwan gets up off the floor. His every movement telegraphs excitement, and it’s, weirdly, adorable. “I mean, sort of. Wonshik gave me a basic education in all sorts of weapons. But we don’t really need to use them.” He lets his fangs run out and bares them at Jaehwan. “Don’t really need to.”

Ignoring that show of bravado, Jaehwan just smiles back sweetly. “Little incubus,” he purrs, and something in Hakyeon’s stomach flips at the sound of the nickname. “Would you be so kind as to get the sword from the spare bedroom?”

Even though this is probably a bad idea, Hakyeon does just that (“So that’s what you did with my bedroom?” Sanghyuk calls after him. “Turned it into a fucking armoury?”) because at least now they’re not silent. At least now there’s life in his apartment once more, and he thanks every god he knows for Hongbin, for all of them. What on earth would he do without them?

The sword—he knows for a fact Jaehwan has more weapons stashed in various hiding places around the apartment; some he knows about and some he doesn’t—is a katana, similar to like Jaehwan’s Earth-forged sword. But whereas that one is magical, a true immortal weapon, this is human and ordinary, albeit beautiful; once Hakyeon had asked how old it was and Jaehwan had replied sagely, “older than you.”

He presses it into Jaehwan’s hands and takes the drink that Wonshik offers him and, together, they stand in the doorway of the kitchen—Sanghyuk joins them after he realises that with one wrong swipe his head could be cut off—and watch, the ice in their drinks clinking pleasantly against the glass, providing a very domestic soundtrack to the scene in front of them. Hongbin takes the sword from Jaehwan and pulls it out from its sheath, weighing it in his hands and turning it back and forth so the blade catches the light. Jaehwan, on the other hand, closes his eyes and, with a gentle push of earthy power that’s as familiar to Hakyeon as breathing, his sword appears in his hand.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Wonshik breathes as Jaehwan spreads his wings and raises his sword.

Sanghyuk, ducking into the kitchen and returning with the bottle, shrugs. “Hongbin’s gonna die,” he says confidently, and raises the bottle to his lips. “It was nice knowing him.”

“We’ll say a nice eulogy at his funeral,” Hakyeon agrees, nodding.

At this Hongbin looks over at them—his eyes are glowing and his fangs are out but, faced with Jaehwan in all his glory, he looks less confident now than he did before—and hisses. “I can _hear_ you, you know.”

“Any last words?” Wonshik asks.

Hongbin twirls the sword in his hands, trying to show off, but drops it. “Yeah. Fuck you,” he shoots back with a grin, and then they’re off.

It’s absolutely fascinating, even as Hakyeon realises the longer they do this the chances of his decor getting fucked up rise exponentially. He’s not as precious about Wonshik about his furniture—he isn’t addicted to fucking Ikea, for one thing—but he’d still not rather have to replace the sofa because it’s slashed in half. But they seem to be avoiding it, for now. They aren’t evenly matched, not even close, but Hongbin seems to be providing a challenge for Jaehwan; he’s light and fast on his feet, so fast that Hakyeon swears somehow he’s teleporting. At some points it’s like he’s reading Jaehwan’s mind, anticipating the next blow—but Jaehwan is always one step ahead, always able to feint at the last second. He’s laying hits with the flat of his sword, never the sharp end, and Hakyeon silently thanks god for that. The last thing he wants to deal with right now is _another_ dead friend.

It’s when he’s in the kitchen fixing himself another drink that he hears it—a gasp from Wonshik, a grunt from Jaehwan, and the sound of glass hitting the floor. _Hongbin_ , he thinks, but when he rounds the corner he sees Jaehwan impaled on the end of Hongbin’s sword, blood pooling on his carpet— _I’ll have to get it replaced_ , some strange corner of his mind muses calmly; _there’s too many stains_. Their faces are close together and Hongbin looks wild, frenzied, but Jaehwan is… laughing?

“What the fuck!” he yelps, scrambling over, his hands fluttering as Hongbin steps back. “Oh my god, Jaehwan!”

“No, no,” Jaehwan replies around his laughs, and then, with no hesitation, grasps the hilt from where it’s sticking out of his stomach and pulls out the sword with a disgusting wet noise. “I’m fine. I’m fine!” Hakyeon’s lifting up his shirt but before he can even touch, the wound closes. “Little incubus. I’m fine.”

Horrified, he looks between Jaehwan, still laughing, and Hongbin, who’s trying not to smile and failing miserably. Even Wonshik is giggling from the doorway, snorting into his vodka, and Hakyeon wants to smack all of them. He hasn’t seen Jaehwan heal like this before—every wound he’s had that Hakyeon has seen was given to him by Taekwoon and his sword. But this? Apart from the residual blood still dripping down his body, it’s like nothing at all happened. Hakyeon just stands there, appalled, and it’s not until Sanghyuk joins in with laughter that he finally sees the funny side too and then they’re all rolling on the floor. “Oh my god,” he gasps, holding a hand to his stomach, aching from laughter. “How—the fuck—did you do it?” he manages to get out, staring through tear-blurred eyes at Hongbin.

“I got lucky… He caught the edge of the sofa with a wing and, and twisted, and I...”

And then they’re off again, laughing over something that really probably shouldn't be laughed at, laughing because it’s better than thinking about what’s to come—because that’s truly terrifying.

//

It’s not until they’re finished the bottle of vodka that Hakyeon spies the sword—discarded in a corner after Sanghyuk had clumsily attempted to spar with Jaehwan as well, an activity that had lasted all of two minutes before Jaehwan got bored with Sanghyuk’s quite frankly pitiful efforts and wandered away—lying on the floor where it had been dropped, still covered in Jaehwan’s blood, albeit dried now. It gives him an idea, one he’s sure is dangerous but he’s too drunk to care so, using the wall to steady himself, staggers down the hallway to fetch his dagger. When he comes back and holds it up the others all look at him blankly, a question in their eyes, and only Jaehwan gets it and stands up slowly.

“Are you sure about this, little incubus?” Jaehwan knows better than to try and intimidate Hakyeon like he did Hongbin, so when he summons his sword it’s with no theatrics; one minute his hand is empty and the next he’s gripping his sword.

Hakyeon understands Jaehwan’s doubt. He doesn’t have vampire reflexes, nor Hongbin’s aura-sensing ability; his specialities lie in seducing mortals, not laying waste to their bodies with violence. But he doesn’t answer, just raises the dagger and hunkers down into a fighter’s stance, grinning.

It’s harder than he thought it would be, and not just because he’s drunk. He has to avoid Jaehwan’s sword, which is much longer than his dagger, while still getting close enough to strike at the parts of Jaehwan that he’s leaving exposed, either because he underestimates Hakyeon or because he’s tipsy. Not to mention it’s been decades, if not centuries, since he sparred like this and to say he’s rusty would be an understatement. But while he may not be a fighter, he is a dancer, and Jaehwan cannot land a hit no matter what he does.

“Oh, my god,” Sanghyuk murmurs as Hakyeon backbends under Jaehwan’s swipe, using one hand to push himself back off the floor. With the both of them as drunk as they are, Sanghyuk’s emotions are flowing into him like water—awe and love and admiration, pure as light itself, and it fuels him even further.

It’s not that he can read Jaehwan’s mind but rather that he’s spent so long studying him that he knows how he’ll move. The way he shifts his grip on his sword right before he stabs it forward is the same way he closes a hand around Hakyeon’s wrist; when his eyes narrow, right as he parries a blow, it’s the same expression he gets when he’s thinking hard about something, calculating things at a million miles an hour; his wings rustle as he spreads them and Hakyeon instantly leaps out of the way, knowing he’ll use the additional propulsion to bolster his attack. It’s a dance, he realises faintly, dropping into a back handspring to get out of Jaehwan’s reach. They’ve danced before but this is deadly, violent, and it’s the edge and the thrill that has him grinning even as he leans out of the way of a sword-strike that, had Jaehwan been aiming with the sharp edge of his sword, could have taken his head off.

And then he realises where he’s seen this dance before, remembers why the movements are so familiar; he’s playing a part that’s not his own. It hits far too close to home and, without hesitating, he turns and flings the dagger at the linen cupboard, where it gets stuck in the door and stays there, wobbling.

The flat of Jaehwan’s sword slaps against the side of his neck and he slowly raises his hands. They’re both panting and Jaehwan’s wearing an unreadable expression, his brows furrowed together, but after a moment he smiles and his eyes return to their normal deep brown. “Well done, little incubus.” His sword vanishes and he pulls Hakyeon into an embrace. “There may be hope for you in that circle yet.”

They turn to Sanghyuk and Hongbin applauding and Wonshik looking strangely pensive. “Where in fuck’s name did you learn that?” slurs Sanghyuk from the floor, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“That wasn’t Hakyeon. That was Songi,” says Wonshik before Hakyeon can reply. They share a long glance. “You always say she’s dead, but she isn’t. She’s a part of you.”

It was only five years that Hakyeon spent as Songi, but she is a mask he wore that he’s never quite managed to take off; she’s masculinity and femininity, strength and grace, the fluidity of water with the strength of the earth, all mixed in one. She is _him_. He is her. He’d run from her that day in the palace, not just from Soyeong but from himself, and he hasn’t stopped running until just now. If he hadn’t become Songi—if Soyeong hadn’t seen through him—if he hadn’t allowed himself to be drawn to her, like a moth to flame—if he’d turned and walked away—

He’d be dust in a grave by now.

“Yeah, well, she never really left, did she?” He shrugs like he hasn’t just had a life-altering revelation about his psyche and leans back into Jaehwan, his touch reassuring and strong. “We’re one and the same.”

For the first time in a long time he closes his eyes and allows himself to think of Jihoon, of the first person he’d loved and left behind. There’d been others, of course—mortals or immortals along the way he’d been friends with, but had drifted apart from for various reasons—but Jihoon’s friendship, his brotherly love, was the purest thing Hakyeon has ever felt and he knows he’ll never feel it again, not in this lifetime at least. He can see the two of them in that tiny house; Jihoon kneeling and beating a fan against the ground in time so Hakyeon could dance, the sunlight streaming in around them, the rough of the wood against his feet grounding him and making him realise that this was truly living. When he opens his eyes he sees his friends, his brother in all but name, his love, his home. Different, but the same. Parallels. It feels like he’s come full circle. He’s finally stopped running.

He’s ready.

//

Jaehwan finds him in the spare bedroom the next day, watching over Wonshik as he sleeps.

“Creepy,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Hakyeon’s waist. “Is that what you do to me when I sleep?”

Hakyeon snorts softly. “I film you, actually.”

Jaehwan laughs into the curve of his neck and then kisses him there. “I suppose I should ask you why you’re watching him.”

“He looks so peaceful. And young. He was only twenty-three when he was turned.” He sighs. “And here he is, nearly six hundred years later.”

Jaehwan must realise what he’s doing because he goes very, very still. “This isn’t goodbye,” he murmurs, and his hands tighten on Hakyeon’s waist. “I won’t let you.”

It’s easy for him to close his eyes and lean against Jaehwan and pretend that he’s right. “Some things are meant to be,” he says, and if he sounds sad it’s because he’s resigned himself to his fate more than anything. “Come on. I should go and feed.”

Jaehwan doesn’t put up a word of protest, not when Hakyeon stops in on Sanghyuk’s bedroom to check on him—sleeping peacefully, of course, wrapped in Hongbin’s cold embrace—and not when he takes his time getting dressed the mortal way, because this might be one of the last chances he gets to do it. In fact, Jaehwan only stops him when he’s about to walk out the door and lays a hand on his wrist, accompanied by a sudden rush of nausea and a wave of power that he now recognises. When he looks down, he’s wearing an outfit that looks vaguely familiar and one that takes him a while to place, but when he gets it he gasps. It’s what he was wearing that night in the club over a year ago: black skinny jeans, a black loose-fitted tshirt that billows when he moves, his hair down over his forehead. It’s even accurate down to the converse he was wearing. “God,” he says, and he realises he sounds hoarse. “I forgot you could do that.”

“One of my more useless powers.” Jaehwan grins, and leans in to press a chaste kiss to Hakyeon’s lips. “Happy hunting.”

“Happy hunting,” Hakyeon echoes as he turns to head out the door, feeling slightly dizzy.

//

He’s not in any hurry to get out of bed when the sun sets—he’d been lying in bed, watching the light die—but when he hears banging begin in the kitchen he figures he should get up. Jaehwan had left when he’d gotten home from hunting a few hours ago, saying he needed to scout things out, leaving Hakyeon with an apartment full of sleeping corpses and one hungover incubus who was in no mood for conversation. So he’d retreated to his bedroom and tried to sleep, failed, and had just laid there and stared at the sun sinking in the sky instead, refusing to let thoughts of black eyes and white wings to take over his thoughts.

Even when he does get up, he spends his sweet time picking out something to wear. After all, what does one wear to one’s own funeral? By the time he makes his way to the kitchen it’s fully dark and the vampires are perched on the stools at the kitchen bench while Sanghyuk stares at the microwave, two bags of blood spinning lazily around inside. They all turn to look at him in unison, rather creepily, and no one says a word, also rather creepily.

“Evening,” Hakyeon says eventually, hating the awkwardness that’s settled over them, such a contrast to how happy they’d all been just twenty-four hours ago. Christ, at this rate it’ll be a relief to summon Taekwoon just so he doesn’t have to deal with this. “Are we all ready?”

“As we’ll ever be,” grunts Wonshik.

Hakyeon’s about to reply with a comment about the weather—because, honestly, he’d have better conversation trying to talk to the wall at this point—when Jaehwan appears out of absolutely nowhere, startling all of them at once. He has his sword out and his gaze is serious, drawn; something not unlike dread settles in Hakyeon’s stomach. “Is it time?” he asks, not really wanting to know the answer.

“Wait. Are we going to do it… here?” Sanghyuk asks as he fishes the blood out of the microwave, handing it off to the vampires with a small frown of disgust. “In your apartment? Won’t it get, like, torn apart?”

“I was thinking the roof. Once you two have finished… eating.” Jaehwan wrinkles his nose at the way the two vampires tear into the blood bags with gusto, even though they almost certainly don’t need to feed. “Unless anyone else has any better ideas.”

Wonshik shrugs, even though Hakyeon can see that the mention of the roof has unnerved him—after all, the last time he was up there Taekwoon had run him through with his sword three times, so he understands his recalcitrance. “It’s as good a place as any.”

“Good.” Jaehwan turns to Hakyeon and narrows his eyes, looking him up and down. “You can’t wear that.”

“What’s wrong with this?” He’s wearing an outfit that’s basic and boring but that fits him well regardless—black jeans, black doc martens, a relatively tight-fitting black tshirt since he didn’t want to get distracted by loose fabric, and his dagger tucked in his belt. “Don’t tell me Taekwoon is the fashion police on top of everything else he’s done.”

But Jaehwan doesn’t even smile. “Long sleeves. Gloves. As much skin covered up as possible.” At Hakyeon’s incredulous look and incoming quip, he shakes his head. “Angels communicate through touch. He’s searched your mind before, hasn’t he?”

He has never quite forgotten that. Every memory Taekwoon had unearthed of he and Jaehwan he’d relieved in explicit, heartbreaking detail, unable to move or pull away, completely helpless. He’d initiated the touch but had regretted it the moment the connection opened up between them. Everywhere he went in Hakyeon’s head he’d left a trace of himself behind, lavender in his mind, and it was horrific. “Yeah,” he says eventually, shaking his head to clear the memories. “It wasn’t very pleasant.”

“So don’t let him do it again.” Jaehwan’s tone is grim, serious, and he folds his arms over his chest. Hakyeon _hates_ seeing him like this—he’s such a world away from the Jaehwan that can’t stop smiling whenever they’re together, that laughs at everything Hakyeon does just because he can. “Hakyeon, I’m serious. He’ll rape your mind if you let him. Don’t give him the chance.”

Shivering, Hakyeon acquiesces, shapeshifting into a long-sleeved black knit turtleneck with a collar that comes up to his chin and thin leather gloves. To spite Jaehwan he makes sure that the wool of his jumper is soft and it fits him perfectly and the leather of his gloves is buttery and smooth; it’s not like it _matters_ , but even in a time like this, he’s not about to let Jaehwan have the last word. “Good?”

He can see that, by the grimace on Jaehwan’s face, he’d rather Hakyeon don a balaclava in addition to the rest of it, but he nods and turns to Wonshik. “Do you know the words?”

Wonshik doesn’t even falter as he tips his head back to get the last of the blood in the bag. “O amate vero Domini, in orbem nostrum te arcesso, sale vinctum, lavendula sevocatum, alis ad solem non iam pandatis pansis. Any further questions?”

“You two.” It’s Sanghyuk and Hongbin’s turn, now, and they both look at Jaehwan with wide eyes. “Are you ready?”

“All we have to do is stand there,” Sanghyuk points out, but gets smaller when Jaehwan starts glaring. “Yeah. We’re ready.”

Jaehwan turns on the spot to eye all of them—Hakyeon in his ridiculous get-up, Wonshik licking his lips and trying to hide how he’s shaking, Hongbin and Sanghyuk both looking paler than usual and holding hands somewhat desperately—and then says the words that Hakyeon’s been dreading. “Then let’s do this.”

//

It’s a pleasantly cool night with no clouds, so as they all assemble in a circle, Jaehwan with his arms full of salt and lavender, they can all stare up at the stars and pretend what’s about to happen isn’t happening. Seeing as Hakyeon’s in the middle of the circle, he takes it upon himself to pour the salt in front of the others; he makes the circle a little larger than last time, knowing he needs to give himself room to get out of Taekwoon’s reach. His hands are remarkably steady as he pours it, walking slowly and taking his time, wanting to get everything right. It’s not until Sanghyuk grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him to a stop that he jumps, startled. “What?”

“Hyung,” Sanghyuk starts, and to Hakyeon’s horror his eyes are filled with tears. “I—I just—”

“Don’t—”

“Let me finish.” He shuts Hakyeon up by clapping a hand over his mouth, smiling as he starts crying openly now. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but thank you for turning me. Thank you for saving my life. I don’t deserve you as a maker.”

_You deserve someone better_ , Hakyeon thinks, but he just pulls Sanghyuk into an embrace, knowing it’s pointless to argue. Let him make Hakyeon a martyr if that’s what will soothe his conscience. Let the rest of them think what they want. All that matters is this ends one way or another, here, tonight, and that even if Hakyeon dies he won’t do it without cutting off one of Taekwoon’s wings, without making him hurt as much as they’ve all been hurt. “I love you,” he whispers into Sanghyuk’s hair, and then kisses the crown of his head. “You know that. I love all of you. Now let’s get this finished.”

Being methodical about it is the only way that he’s holding himself together. He knows that if he lets his emotions slip through he will fall to pieces so he just picks up the salt and continues along the circle, letting Hongbin hug him, taking Wonshik’s caress to his face until he’s in front of Jaehwan and the circle is complete. But they all know, of course. They can all see how hard he’s trying to keep it together as Jaehwan hands him the lavender with unmeasurable grief in his eyes; as he crushes it between his palms he realises he’s trembling all over like a livewire.

He takes his dagger from his belt and turns so he’s got his back to Hongbin and can see Sanghyuk, Jaehwan, and Wonshik. “I’m ready,” he lies, and drops into a fighter’s stance.

Wonshik doesn’t hesitate, and for that, he’s grateful. “ _O amate vero Domini, in orbem nostrum te arcesso, sale vinctum, lavendula sevocatum, alis ad solem non iam pandatis pansis_ ,” he says, enunciating every word, speaking slowly and clearly.

Just like last time, that wave of power builds and builds and Hakyeon has to resist the urge to step back. It’s a supernatural warning, a threat that says _don’t do this, stop, stop NOW_ , but Wonshik, of course, doesn’t stop, and when the last syllable leaves his mouth the power hits them at once and—

Taekwoon.

Under the moonlight he looks, for a heartbeat, almost beautiful, like he’s carved of marble; his wings are so impossibly white they gleam, and with no expression on his handsome face Hakyeon thinks he really _could_ be a force for good. But then he blinks, and realises where he is, and all hell breaks loose.

The first thing he sees is Jaehwan and he must just be acting on instinct because he summons his sword and jumps for Jaehwan’s throat before Hakyeon can even take a breath. But he slams face-first into the glowing thread of light surrounding all of them—Hakyeon hears Hongbin grunt with effort behind him, but the circle bends and holds—and snarls, a wild, hideous sound that has Hakyeon’s skin crawling. Before he can even think, before he can second guess himself, he raises his dagger and leaps towards Taekwoon, who still has his back turned; with his wings slightly outstretched Hakyeon can practically _see_ himself sliding the dagger up, slicing neatly through the base of one of them, of Taekwoon screaming.

But he misjudged. Mid-air he cannot dodge, has nothing to spring against, and Taekwoon turns at the last second and snatches him out of the air by the throat, slamming him to the ground and raising his sword. Hakyeon knows he must have been reacting without thinking because once he realises exactly who he’s got pinned he freezes, his eyes going wide—he certainly wasn’t expecting _that_ —and Hakyeon slashes furiously at the tendons at the back of his ankle, cutting through them entirely and making him yelp.

He’s on his feet and ducking Taekwoon’s sword; unlike Jaehwan’s—light and fast—this broadsword is huge but slow, giving him an advantage. He feints to the left but Taekwoon sees through it—a shout from Sanghyuk, a warning—and grabs him by the neck again, his fingers wrapping around his throat, squeezing. One twitch and he’ll break Hakyeon’s neck.

Hakyeon yells, already going hoarse, and plunges the dagger straight into Taekwoon’s eye.

“You—” spits Taekwoon, blood pouring from his ruined eye, and then Hakyeon hears Jaehwan’s scream, a _roar_ , and his eyes whirl for the sword. But the sword hangs limply at Taekwoon’s side. Instead Hakyeon realises, with horror, what Jaehwan is screaming about; Taekwoon’s fingertips rest on his cheek, just above where the fabric of his turtleneck ends.

“No, don’t—” he begs, but then he feels Taekwoon in his mind, and everything goes black.

//

**_12th October 1919_ **  
**_Mapo-gu, Seoul_ **

Hakyeon wakes to the sound of crying.

That wouldn’t be anything particularly strange except when he sits up and runs a hand through his hair sleepily he realises that his internal clock is telling him it’s still hours until sunset, and the only two people he lives with should be, for all intents and purposes, dead right about now. And Wonshik is, indeed, dead; when Hakyeon leans across to the pile of blankets he can see he’s not even moving.

He finds Hongbin in the corner of the room, curled up into a ball and sobbing his eyes out. The blood all down his front tells Hakyeon this has been going for a while; he doesn’t say a word, just folds Hongbin into his arms, lets him nuzzle at his neck to feel his pulse. “Hush,” he murmurs, voice low. “Hush, now. What’s wrong?”

“I want to see the sun,” Hongbin sobs, and Hakyeon’s heart falls. “Hyung, I want to see it so badly. I want to feel it. Let me feel it. Please let me feel it.”

Even though they aren’t linked by a bond, Hakyeon can feel Hongbin’s sadness winding through his veins anyway, and wonders if this is what Wonshik feels. Is this the true burden of becoming a maker? Of taking on their emotions as your own, the good and the bad? Of reliving every fear you thought you’d buried? “Oh, Hongbinnie,” he says, because he doesn’t know what he can say. If he wanted to right now he could go out in the sun and nothing would happen to him. His heart still beats; he is still blessed with life. He has no idea why vampires have to stay dead, but right now it just seems so very cruel.

“You’re so warm,” Hongbin wails, practically crawling onto Hakyeon’s lap. “Why can’t I be warm?”

Oh, his heart must be breaking, surely this is what heartbreak feels like. If he could harness the sun and bring it into the room right now for Hongbin he would, but he cannot. All he can do is hold Hongbin close and rock him back and forth, touching him in the ways that Wonshik won’t—a kiss to his temple, gentle circles rubbed on his back—and wishing that it was enough when it so clearly isn’t. Was this what he was like, in the beginning? It’s strange, but he can’t quite remember; all his memories of the past are blurred, and his hand stills on Hongbin’s back as his eyebrows furrow. Something—something’s not right—

Hongbin’s sobs in his arms bring him back to the present, and he shoves his worries away. He’s just woken up; it’s natural that he won’t be able to reach that far back in his head to remember what he was like when he was a newborn, and even if he could he doubts that would be much use to Hongbin now. There’s certainly no point admitting that he’s just as much out of his element as Hongbin is, either. For as long as he’s been an immortal he’s been the one Wonshik looked after and now that he suddenly has to take on the role of nurturer, of parent, he’s lost.

He disentangles himself from Hongbin’s grasp, ignoring the way he mewls, and fetches a rag from one of the cupboards. He runs it under the tap before returning to Hongbin and pushing his hair back off his face to gently wipe at the blood streaming down his face, neck, chest; it looks like he’s been in a fight, and Hakyeon wishes that he doesn’t have this to deal with, either—every time he feels sorrow he’s reminded of the monster he’s become. If he could take on Hongbin’s burdens as his own, he would, and it’s this that makes him realise he really and truly has stepped into another role with Hongbin’s turning.

“It’ll be okay,” he says, because if he believes it maybe Hongbin will, too. He doesn’t have all the answers. He can’t even _pretend_ to have all the answers. But if he and Wonshik somehow turned out alright, there’s hope for Hongbin. “I promise. You’ll get through this and come out the other side and you’ll be happy.” _You have to be_. “Wonshik and I, we’ll give you the world.”

When Hongbin turns his face towards Hakyeon it’s like he’s seen the sun again; hope blooms in his face, real and palpable, and Hakyeon feels his heart sing at being the one to give that back to him. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitating. “I promise you. Things will get better. This will get easier.”

This time when Hongbin bursts into tears, flinging his arms around Hakyeon so abruptly they both topple to the ground, it’s comforting to know they are tears of relief and not ones of angst. In fact they lie there like that for so long—Hongbin crying into Hakyeon’s chest, Hakyeon just holding him and stroking his hair—that that’s how Wonshik finds them when the sun sets, curled into each other, sleeping peacefully with the weight of hope nestled over them both.

 

**_28th April 1852_ **  
**_Kensington, London_ **

The moment the sun dips below the horizon, Hakyeon makes a running leap onto Wonshik’s bed, landing directly on top of him.

“Ow! Hakyeon? You fucking—” Wonshik grunts, and then, with a snarl, flips Hakyeon over. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I missed you,” Hakyeon replies, ignoring the way Wonshik is trying to keep him at arm’s length and crawling closer to loop his arms around Wonshik’s neck from behind in the kind of embrace that he doesn’t enjoy but tolerates for Hakyeon’s sake. “I thought I’d come back to find you amongst a harem of women. Having a blood orgy, or whatever. I don’t know what vampires get up to when their children are elsewhere.”

He’s being facetious since he isn’t exactly Wonshik’s child, and he has his suspicions about what he got up to, but it has the effect he intended and Wonshik huffs with amusement and leans back into Hakyeon’s arms. “Can you speak in Korean, for the love of God? I miss hearing it when you’re not around.”

It had been some of Hakyeon’s aristocrat friends that had suggested he join them on a trip to Scotland for a fortnight—they owned a castle up there, in the very north of the country. Hakyeon has never quite seen scenery like that before, so different to Joseon in its wildness and vast openness; there was a foreign magic to it that had entranced him, and he’d stayed for a third week, unable to tear himself away. It was uncharacteristic of him, since he’s normally so attached to cities. Perhaps he just needed a sea change. It was good to get away from Wonshik, too, although he’d never say that. Sometimes they get on each other’s nerves a little _too_ much—but whenever they reunite, it’s like they’ve never bickered or argued and are firm friends once more. Hakyeon has no idea what Wonshik did with himself while he was away, but he suspects it would have been just the same as what he does when Hakyeon’s there: lounge around and bury himself in books, going to occasional social events because he is expected to, glamouring the staff whenever he needs to feed and then feeling guilty about it afterwards.

“Sorry, hyung,” he replies with only a hint of sarcasm, slipping back into his native tongue. It’s been three weeks since he spoke a word of Korean to anyone, but this, this thread of commonality they have between them amongst a raft of differences that leave Hakyeon breathless sometimes, feels like coming home. “Well? Did you read anything interesting while I was gone?”

Wonshik rolls his shoulders, an indication he’s had enough of the touching, so Hakyeon relents and flops back onto the bed, folding his hands behind his head and listening to him speak. “I did, actually. A fascinating German novel, a dystopia. It was really grim.” Lying down, he rolls onto his side so they’re face-to-face and smiles at Hakyeon—his fangs are slightly out, a sure sign he’s relaxed and content. “Maybe we should go to Germany next. I could start teaching you, if you’d like.”

This is another thread of what they have in common: for each new country they’ve visited, Wonshik has sat down and slowly and patiently taught Hakyeon a new language (for all his patience he’d looked slightly relieved when, back in China, Hakyeon had opened his mouth unprompted to ask directions from a local in clipped, faintly-accented but fluent Mandarin; he’d learnt Chinese as part of his yangban upbringing, much as Wonshik probably had). French had been the first, and it had been terribly difficult, but Wonshik had never once lost his temper or got frustrated with Hakyeon, had just continued walking him through it methodically and logically. Eventually Hakyeon had started picking it up and from there English was a lot easier. Now he’s fluent in both. He isn’t even surprised Wonshik’s started on another language by himself. He takes some kind of pleasure in it, of puzzling out how each language is related to the other, how they fit together; it’s almost ironic since when Hakyeon met him he was painfully hard to communicate with regardless of a common language. He’s getting better now—is opening up more, starting to touch Hakyeon casually as friends do—but Hakyeon thinks his fascination with the world of linguistics will never quite abate.

“Tell me about your favourite word,” he says, and even though he knows Wonshik’ll get pissy scoots in and slides an arm around his waist.

To his surprise, though, Wonshik tolerates the touch. “ _Sehnsucht_ ,” he says, the foreign word sounding so strange coming out of his lips. “It means longing, yearning, craving… but not really. It’s almost untranslatable. A sense of intensely missing something. It’s a whole range of feelings that can’t be summed up in one word.”

_Sehnsucht_. Longing, desire, wanting. It’s been a long time since Hakyeon felt that kind of ache in his chest, but as he listens to Wonshik talk about it, it slams back into him with such force he feels almost winded. How can it have been two hundred years? How have two centuries passed the both of them by, not leaving any mark on them except for the stain of jadedness that is slowly spreading from Wonshik’s heart to Hakyeon’s own? Can it really be two hundred years since that awful time at the palace? He has that longing, _sehnsucht_ , humming behind his breastbone and he’s not even really sure what for. Mortality? It’s been a long time since he wished he was human again. Friends? All he has is Wonshik, really. The others are lovely, but they’re fun to drink with, to fuck, to feed from. Wonshik is the only one who understands—but that’s all he needs. Love? There was a time he thought he’d had that, with Soyeong, but he knows now that was a lie and he’s not interested in lies. So what the hell is making his heart ache so much?

“Hakyeon,” Wonshik says softly, bringing Hakyeon out of his trance. “Why are you crying? Was my attempt at German that bad?”

He’s crying? He touches a hand to his face and laughs when it comes back wet. “Fuck. I’m such a cliché.” Wonshik still looks worried so he shrugs, trying to alleviate his concerns. “I was just thinking about home, is all. It’s been a long time.”

Something in Wonshik’s eyes softens and he cups Hakyeon’s cheek, a gesture of intimacy so out of character that Hakyeon stops sniffling almost immediately. “Do you want to go home? We can go back, if you want. I don’t mind.”

At first Hakyeon is tempted to say yes. His time in Scotland really underscored the distance for him. It was beautiful, shockingly so, but because it was so different it was somewhat bittersweet. He longs for Hanyang, for Joseon, for the country he knows, to be surrounded by his mother tongue, for the palace—

His mind rears away from that. The palace—Jihoon—no. He won’t allow himself to think of it. He can’t, anyway. It’s fuzzy, far away, blurry in his mind, and perhaps that’s for the best. It’s why he’d run in the first place. His failure and his shame stained him, echoing around his mind no matter what he did, where he went; here, on the other side of the world, it’s been easy to forget. Going home again will make it all real again, and after two centuries it’s only just starting to feel like a distant dream. “No,” he says, and then realise he’s practically shouted it in Wonshik’s face and makes himself calm down. “No, I don’t. Not yet.” Wonshik is still looking at him like that, with his eyebrows furrowed, so he makes himself smile. “Germany sounds nice.”

He can tell Wonshik doesn’t believe him, but that’s alright. He doesn’t say anything more, just lets Hakyeon cling onto him, lets him pretend that he isn’t crying. They don’t need words for these kinds of things anymore. They just _are_ , and that familiarity is all Hakyeon really needs in this strange, never-ending life he has.

 

**_2nd August 1630_ **  
**_Somewhere in North-Eastern China_ **  
**_(Liaoning Province)_ **

“Are you ready?”

Hakyeon’s not—he’s fucking terrified—but he’d be damned if he’d let Wonshik know that and so he nods, resolute. He gets the feeling that Wonshik will take any sign of weakness as an opportunity to attack and, with the way he’s been acting since Hakyeon’s joined him, it seems like he’s just waiting for a chance to rip Hakyeon’s head off for one reason or another. The thought scares him, perhaps more than it should since he knows Wonshik is just a man.

(But then, he’s seen Wonshik bring down trees with one swipe of his arm, seen him run faster than should be possible, has seen his eyes flash red with blood all down his front, the very image of a demon—so maybe he isn’t just a man, after all.)

They’re sitting cross-legged in a field. The landscape has started to blur together after this long on the move. Wonshik says this is China, but aside from the fact they had to cross a river to get here, it could be any particular field in the north part of the Joseon for all Hakyeon knows. He’s not quite sure what Wonshik’s obsession is with sleeping in nature and avoiding the cities, but he hasn’t questioned it. He doesn’t know if he’s _allowed_ to.

“Try something simple at first.” Wonshik’s gaze is even, unreadable, his voice steady. How can he be so in control? “Try making your hair shorter.”

With a twist of his lips, Hakyeon—well, there’s no other way to describe it. He shapeshifts. Or tries to, at least; it’s like flexing a muscle that he’s never used before. It almost _hurts_. But he thinks about his hair, imagines it being shorter, and…

And just like that, he has short hair.

Wonshik doesn’t even smile. “Good,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like praise, not really. “Now try making it longer again.”

It _does_ hurt, Hakyeon decides. There’s just a hint of pain in his chest as he does as Wonshik commands, a burning that’s strange and familiar all at once; it makes his vision go fuzzy as he recognises that, ever so slightly, it’s making him hungry. Not the kind of hunger that can be sated by eating food, either. The other kind, the kind he hates.

“Alright. Why don’t you try something a little bit more… challenging?” When Hakyeon doesn’t say anything, Wonshik shrugs. “Maybe try changing into one of your friends, or a relative.”

Hakyeon is deliberately avoiding every thought of anyone he’s left behind, so instead he focuses on the very person sitting in front of him, so impassive and so still he may as well be made of stone: Wonshik. This _does_ hurt, and the burning is _more_ —and then he’s looking through eyes that are different and his teeth are terribly sharp and then Wonshik starts yelling.

“I didn’t mean me, you insolent—” He rears back, horror written all over his face. “Change back.”

“Why, hyung?” Hakyeon asks, and they both flinch at once—his voice is Wonshik’s deep rumble. His hands, when he holds them up in front of his face, are Wonshik’s, bigger than his own. He can’t stop running his tongue over his fangs, utterly fascinated by them. “This is cool.”

“Hakyeon, please,” Wonshik pleads, and he sounds so exasperated Hakyeon refuses, only because this is the most animated he’s ever been. “It’s—”

“I can smell _everything_.” He sniffs the air like a dog. “God, is this what it’s like being you? Does this mean I’m as strong as you now?” When he stands up he does it so fast his head spins, but then things begin dawning on him, so fast he can’t get the words out. “This is—can I do wings—animals?”

Wonshik just watches on in horror as Hakyeon shapeshifts on a giant pair of bird-like wings—for no other reason except he _can_ —and then takes off running across the field. The first animal that pops into his head is something they’ve seen a lot of in their travels, a wolf, and he jumps into the air and concentrates—

The pain rips through him. He would scream, if he could, but since he now has a muzzle and a wolfy tongue he can’t. All he can do is howl as his body rearranges itself, bones cracking and reforming, muscles stretching and ligaments tearing. It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt and it’s made worse by the fact that when he comes back to himself he’s a fucking wolf, but he’s _himself_ , but he’s a wolf, and he lies down in the grass and buries his nose between his paws and whines.

A hand falls on his neck—scruff?—and strokes the fur there. It feels kind of nice, actually, and he rolls over onto his belly and looks up at Wonshik, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Being Hakyeon and being a wolf, wolf-Hakyeon, is very strange. But it’s just the latest in a long line of strange things that have happened lately, so he doesn’t even care that he starts wriggling when Wonshik scratches his belly, trying to explain that it feels good. Even Wonshik is smiling, and that’s truly notable since Hakyeon hasn’t seen him smile before, not once. He gets to his feet and rears up so his front paws are on Wonshik’s shoulders and licks his face, knowing it’s revolting, not caring, and is rewarded with Wonshik roaring with laughter and attempting to push him away. “Hakyeon, get off! Don’t be disgusting! Change back, this is so strange, _please_.”

It’s only because his face is so transformed when he laughs, and how he says please while still gasping for air, that Hakyeon does as he’s told. He’s expecting the pain, this time, which doesn’t make it as excruciating. It still hurts, but when he swims back to himself he’s still got both hands on Wonshik’s shoulders and Wonshik’s looking at him like he’s the sun personified, and maybe that makes all the pain worth it. “Did I do well?”

“Yeah,” Wonshik says, and smiles lopsidedly. “You did. Good job.”

This time it _does_ sound like praise, and Hakyeon basks under it before sliding his hands away and stepping back—but he can sense Wonshik looking at him with something not unlike newfound respect as they both turn and head back to where they were sitting, and smiles to himself.

 

**_9th May 1630_ **  
**_Hanyang, Joseon_ **  
**_(Jongno-gu, Seoul)_ **

“Go, hyung!”

He’s in front of the palace. He can hear hurried footsteps. Guards. They’re running. He blinks against the sunlight and before he can even really process where he is, who he’s with, Jihoon uncaps the tiny bottle of poison and raises it to his lips—

“No!” Hakyeon screams, although to whom, he’s not sure. This is wrong. This is _wrong_ , he’s not meant to be here, something’s not right, he promised himself he’d never think of this day ever again, he doesn’t want to be here, he can’t, this isn’t right, lavender, his head hurts, there was something—no, no, no, no, no, no—

_there’s someone in his mind—_

Everything goes black.

 

**_18th August 1612_ **  
**_Hanyang, Joseon_ **  
**_(Jongno-gu, Seoul)_ **

“Mother?”

His mother looks up in surprise from where he’s peering around the doorway and welcomes him in with a smile. “What’s wrong, my little one?”

He makes his way across the room and folds himself on the floor in front of her. Her outfit today, as it is every day, is spectacular and colourful; sometimes Hakyeon thinks his mother is the prettiest woman in the whole world. Sometimes he wishes he could be her, or at least wear the clothes she does. “I don’t want to do writing anymore,” he says with a pout.

She regards him over the embroidery she’s doing, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Oh? And what did your tutor have to say about that?”

Hakyeon’s writing tutor is probably at least a hundred years old and has a tendency to doze off in the afternoons, especially if it’s a warm day like today. Last Hakyeon had seen him he’d been sleeping upright (which was pretty impressive in Hakyeon’s eyes), his mouth slack, eyelids fluttering and fingers twitching. It had been easy for Hakyeon to get up from the desk and steal away to the women’s wing of the house. He’s good at going unnoticed when he wants to be. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, and then points to the fabric in her hands. “What are you doing? I want to do it.”

At this his mother does put the fabric down, but only to gather him into her arms and turn him around so he’s sitting on her lap. From here he gets a great view when she picks up the embroidery again and watches, fascinated, as she pushes the needle through the fabric and around, over and over again. “This is women’s work,” she chastises him, but her tone is gentle. “Your job, as the son of the house, is to learn to read and write.”

“But it’s boring.”

When she laughs he feels it vibrate through his whole body and so he starts giggling too because it tickles. “If you ask me, this is pretty boring.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

She sighs. “I have nothing else to do right now.” Her hands are even, her movements of the needle methodical and familiar. “It’s a nice way to clear my mind.”

“Can I do it?”

“What seven year old needs his mind cleared?” But she hands him the fabric anyway, holding the needle out of reach. “This is very sharp and you can hurt yourself, so we’ll do it together, alright?”

“I know what a needle is, mother,” he says, and that makes her laugh again.

“So you do. Alright.”

With her help he begins to guide the needle through the fabric, over and over again. He’s doing it a lot slower than she was but that’s alright. He’s just glad that he’s not writing the same characters over and over again and is instead nestled into his mother’s embrace. He feels warm and content and wonderfully tired, and soon his hands fall from hers and he watches her for a little while, his eyes drifting shut.

He doesn’t wake up when she scoops him up and carries him through the house to his bedroom, although he does cling closer to her. He certainly doesn’t stir when she places him down in his bed, his blankets a mess because he steadfastly refuses to make his bed, and he doesn’t see how she holds a hand to his forehead for a moment, her gaze full of such love it would make his heart ache to see.

When she leaves his room she leaves behind the sound of rustling skirts and, curiously, the scent of lavender.

 

**_27th May 2017_ **  
**_Gangnam-gu, Seoul_ **

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Hakyeon doesn’t grace Jaehwan with a reply, mainly because sarcasm is dripping from his breath as thick as honey, and instead rolls over to bury his head in what turns out to be a mass of feathers. It’ll probably never stop being a point of difference between them, that after so long with the vampires Hakyeon is mostly nocturnal whereas Jaehwan likes to rise early, but Hakyeon doesn’t much care as long as Jaehwan will always be here to tease him about it.

(The thought of Jaehwan sets faint alarm bells to ringing in the back of his head, though, and he can’t quite remember why.)

“Mmm, shut up. We had a late night last night,” he mumbles, and then spits out a feather while Jaehwan laughs. “You know what Hongbin and Sanghyuk are like. We’d ended up at some godforsaken bar on the other side of the river. I swear Sanghyuk _lives_ for dives like that.”

“Good hunting?”

“Mmm,” Hakyeon says, and thinks of the woman he’d fucked last night, up against the wall of his apartment. She’d been young, around Sanghyuk’s age, and had so much energy to give Hakyeon had found it hard to hold himself back from taking more than he needed. “You could say that.”

“Should I be jealous?” Jaehwan’s joking, but he’s not, and Hakyeon cracks an eyelid open and props himself up on a elbow. He’s smiling, which Hakyeon knows to be a ruse. “You’re not going to run off and leave me for some hussy, are you?”

He’s projecting his insecurities so obviously Hakyeon is blinded by them, and they are absolutely laughable. Why would he ever leave Jaehwan? He has everything he needs for the rest of eternity right here in his arms, and he’d be an idiot to throw it away. “You’re the only one for me,” he says, seriously, and kisses Jaehwan gently. “You know that. Stop fishing for compliments.”

“You’re right,” Jaehwan replies, bashful. “But you don’t know how you look sometimes, Hakyeon. You can make a man fall to his knees with a smile. You could have the world at your feet if you wanted to.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick, Jaehwan.” Hakyeon opens both eyes properly now and kisses Jaehwan once more. “Besides, I already have my world right here. I don’t want anything else.”

He can see, by the look in Jaehwan’s eyes, that he’s not entirely convinced. After all, ever since he’s come into Hakyeon’s life, he has brought danger, and pain, and heartache with him, too (although, try as he might, Hakyeon can’t remember what he’s done, or why he knows this. He only knows that bad things have happened in the past, things that are Jaehwan’s fault)—but he’s brought love, and he’s brought light, and Hakyeon isn’t interested in living unless he has those things and Jaehwan along with them.

“I’ll take your word for it, little incubus,” Jaehwan purrs, and runs his hand down the side of Hakyeon’s body. “So I take it you don’t need to feed again.”

“Hey, if you’re offering…” He lets Jaehwan kiss him, feeling his doubts disappear.

//

He doesn’t even get to bask in the afterglow of Jaehwan’s energy for long, because he starts getting restless almost immediately, looking out the window and twitching. Hakyeon can’t stand seeing it so he practically shoves Jaehwan out of bed, telling him to go flying, yes, he can cope by himself for a few hours, he’ll have a bath or something, go, it’ll be fine, _go_. Jaehwan eventually acquiesces but not before kissing Hakyeon so hard he feels like he’s breathless and dying by the time he pulls back—and then he’s gone, opening Hakyeon’s bedroom window and jumping out in typical dramatic fashion.

It takes Hakyeon another two hours to get out of bed, mainly because he falls back asleep in the afternoon sunshine. When he wakes again, feeling damp and sweaty and altogether gross, he hauls himself out of bed and pads down the hallway towards the kitchen.

_An angel standing in his living room, pulling a knife from his own thigh and licking the blade, tasting his own blood—_

What the fuck? He blinks but the image is gone and he’s standing where he was a second ago, still stark naked in his own living room. There’s no angel and there’s no knife, just the sun streaming in through the blinds, and for a moment it feels like he’s been winded.

He makes his way cautiously to the fridge and pulls out a red bull, half-expecting to see an angel waiting inside for him. But there’s nothing. It’s not until he’s running the bath and nothing else has happened that he dismisses it as an overtired hallucination; it must be. He’d have nothing to do with angels. They terrify him.

_That same angel, holding Wonshik by the neck while he bleeds, a shimmering sword in his hand, the sun breaching the line of the horizon—_

He blinks and he’s in the bath. That’s odd. He doesn't remember getting in the bath and he doesn't remember dropping in a bath bomb but he apparently has, because there’s one fizzing away. He’s starting to feel a little nauseous. The alarm bells that had started ringing in his head won’t shut up now, but he doesn’t know what he has to feel worried about. There’s nothing wrong. There’s just him and Jaehwan, and their love, and that’s all he needs. Nothing else. Not the others… The others. Wonshik and Hongbin and Sanghyuk. With dawning horror he realises he can’t remember their faces, what they look like, which is absurd because he saw them all last night. What the fuck is happening to him?

_The angel and Jaehwan in a circle on a beach, Wonshik screaming over the sound of waves, power washing over them as Hakyeon falls to his knees—_

“Hakyeon?” Jaehwan’s kneeling in front of him. He’s dressed and sitting on the bed and shaking like a leaf. When he looks up he realises it’s night. What… where did that time go? “What’s wrong?”

“Something… in my head…” he mutters, shaking his head in an effort to clear this strange feeling. He just wants to stay here with Jaehwan forever. He doesn’t want this angel. He doesn’t want whatever pain he knows this angel will bring. “Time is… disappearing. I keep seeing this angel…”

Jaehwan shakes his head. “Don’t think about it, little incubus.”

But how can he not think about it? It felt so _real_ , he can’t just dismiss it—that angel, with its eyes and fangs and its _anger_ —and then when he looks up at Jaehwan his eyes are black and the world falls away.

_The angel’s horrid black eyes, unreadable—_  
_The angel’s fangs, bared as he grins—_  
_The angel reaching out and touching him on the face, searching his mind, rifling through every memory of Jaehwan—_  
_Jaehwan and Taekwoon doing battle, impossibly well-matched, dancing a deadly dance that Hakyeon cannot follow the choreography of, cannot hope to—_  
_Taekwoon in the circle on the roof of his apartment—_

“Taekwoon,” he gasps, and everything becomes clear, painfully so. Jaehwan is still kneeling on the ground in front of him, his face a mask of concern, but it’s a lie. “I remember.”

“Don’t,” Jaehwan pleads, and then takes Hakyeon's hands. “Don’t think about it—”

The scent of lavender is all around them and, in a way, it’s almost admirable. How Taekwoon is able to twist a real memory into a caricature of itself Hakyeon isn’t sure, but something’s gone wrong, because he _remembers_. He sees _everything_. He sees his life up until now stretched out behind him and he sees the future, too, everything leading up to that moment on the rooftop, that moment that’s happening in the present, somewhere that’s not here. _Parlour tricks_ , he thinks, and feels the Taekwoon in his mind hiss in reply.

“Stay with me,” Jaehwan’s pleading now, and he’s crying. “Don’t leave me, Hakyeon. Please don’t leave me. I’ll die without you. You’re my world, you’re my everything. Stay with me.”

Even though part of him knows this is just a trick of Taekwoon’s, Jaehwan’s voice sounds so heart-achingly real, and his grip so tight on Hakyeon’s hands, that for a moment he falters. Would it be so bad to stay here? It wouldn’t hurt anyone, surely?

But then he thinks of the others, of Sanghyuk and Hongbin and Wonshik, who have given up so much—he won’t let them sacrifice any more. So he just smiles sadly at Jaehwan and reaches out to wipe away his tears. “Sorry, my love,” he says to the dream-Jaehwan. “Not meant to be this time around.”

His mind shatters and he’s flung back, back, back, and everything goes painfully, beautifully white.

//

His eyes snap open, seeing but not registering, and as he comes back to himself he wishes this was another one of Taekwoon’s false memories.

They’re still standing just where they were. How much time has passed? An hour? A minute? A decade? Taekwoon’s other hand is curled loosely into a fist, his sword on the ground from where he’s dropped it. The dagger is now in Hakyeon’s hand, somehow, and apart from the drying blood on Taekwoon’s face there’s no trace of the wound. The hand around Hakyeon’s neck has moved to cup his cheek, an intimate touch that revolts him. When his eyes dart around the circle he can see the others are still there, it’s still holding; Sanghyuk is sweating profusely but he’s on his feet, and Jaehwan is practically vibrating with rage.

And he sees himself.

Somehow a connection that was one-way has become two-way and he’s now inside Taekwoon’s mind at the same time that Taekwoon is inside his. In Taekwoon’s eyes, he looks vengeful yet serene, the epitome of cold rage. Worse than that, though, is how Taekwoon’s mind is so, so vast, and so very full of loneliness. Hakyeon thought he knew what it was like to be alone, but feeling this… He starts crying and he can’t help it. It is the single most horrific thing he has ever felt in his entire life, worse than when he was turned, worse than when Jihoon killed himself, worse than when Hongbin died, worse than every single awful experience he’s ever had in his life up until this point. He pities Taekwoon, then, and because the connection is still open Taekwoon feels that pity at the same time he does and something passes between them. Understanding. Hakyeon can’t understand what it’s like to be filled with such hate for Jaehwan (and he can feel it, pulsing inside of Taekwoon’s head), but he does know what it’s like to be lonely.

He watches himself through Taekwoon’s eyes as he takes a step closer, pulling Taekwoon into an embrace. He feels Taekwoon’s arms come around him, feels himself-as-Taekwoon hug himself back. He feels the cold of the dagger against his back as he slides it up, the bite of the metal at the base of one of his wings, the pain that’s like nothing he’s ever felt before.

He breaks, and the connection is shattered.

//

“Jesus, Hakyeon, you have to wake up,” someone’s shouting, which means that something is very wrong.

He sits up. Tries to. His head is pounding like it’s been run over, and when he opens his eyes again he sees the other three crowded around him. The circle has been broken. He closes his eyes again.

“Nope, nuh-uh, you’re not leaving us again,” someone says—it sounds like Hongbin, in his typical no-nonsense voice—and then he’s being picked up and slung over a shoulder. It’s incredibly undignified, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He’s placed on the ground with all the care of someone dumping a sack of potatoes. He curls up into a ball, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing he was anywhere else. Muttered voices, talking about what to do with him. Someone cold coming in close. Wonshik?

A slap across the face.

Definitely Wonshik.

“What,” he says, opening his eyes and sitting up, “was that for?”

“To get you back in the land of the living. And look.” Wonshik shrugs, but his nonchalance is belied by the relief in his eyes. “It worked.”

It’s strange. He knows where he is (the roof) and he knows _when_ he is (2017) and he knows who he’s with (Wonshik), but he blinks and the visions of the past swim in front of his eyes, his past, the past he’s just relived. London. China. Joseon. It all blurs together into one horrible endless movie, playing when he closes his eyes and now, apparently, when they’re open. It’s not like he’s repressed these memories, because they were always there if he wanted to get to them. It’s just that he had no reason to revisit them, either because they were so mundane or because they _hurt_. And now Taekwoon has raped his mind, dug through the very experiences that made him into who he is today, and—

“Taekwoon,” he gasps, and the past vanishes as he staggers to his feet. The dagger. He’s still clutching it in his hand, grip so tight his knuckles are going white, the blade covered in blood. “What—”

Sanghyuk catches him when his legs give way, his face pale with worry that ages him well beyond his years. “You did it,” he whispers, a mix of awe and concern in his voice. “You cut one of his wings off. He just stood there and let you. Embraced you, even.”

“And?”

“And,” Hongbin chimes in with a sweeping arm gesture. “And they’re somehow still fighting.”

The first thing Hakyeon notices is the wing lying bloody and broken on the ground. He has spent enough time with Jaehwan’s wings, stroking them and looking at them, to appreciate the sacredness and divinity of wings like that. Seeing one of them ruined as a result of him hurts, even though this is Taekwoon and Taekwoon deserves nothing less. He hates that it turns his stomach and looks away, unable to stand it.

Somehow Taekwoon is still flying with one wing—albeit a desperate, hagged sort of flying that seems to involve a lot of teleporting—and he’s even managing to launch an offence against Jaehwan. But the longer Hakyeon watches (and he can’t look away, can’t afford to), he can see that this has nothing in common with the carefully choreographed deadly dances he’s seen them engaging in before. This is desperation. This is Taekwoon raining blows on Jaehwan with a fury that’s otherworldly in origin, relentless. This is Jaehwan being on the defense, unable to retaliate. It’s horrific to watch, and not least because the open wound on Taekwoon’s back is streaming blood all down his body, running down his thighs, dripping off his feet. His teeth are gritted and his face is pale and Hakyeon knows, as they all do, that this must end now. Taekwoon has nothing left to lose, and an angel with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous thing on Earth.

“Do something!” he growls at Wonshik, but Wonshik just looks back at him like he’s asked if he knows how to say _I’d like to buy twelve oranges_ in Turkish.

“What do you expect me to _do?_ They’re fighting in mid-air. I can’t exactly leap across and grab his ankles.”

He has a point—they’re about ten metres off the side of the building and several metres up, impossible for any of the others to reach. They’re reduced to spectators in this stupid game, as per usual, and while that was fine before it’s not now, not when Jaehwan is still being forced back. “How did the circle break?” he spits as he paces, not taking his eyes off them.

“One moment it was there and the next it was just… gone.” Hakyeon hears Sanghyuk speak from over his right shoulder and knows he’s mirroring his movements, keeping his eyes trained skyward. “It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel like anything, really. It was the strangest thing.”

“Why the fuck would it do that?”

“He’s not an angel anymore,” Hongbin explains, and shrugs when Hakyeon turns to stare at him. “Not a whole one, at least. That’s my theory. His colours have gone all funny.”

He’s a not-angel that’s about to kill Jaehwan, and frustration has Hakyeon about to leap off the edge of the roof himself, kept down only by Sanghyuk’s hand falling on his arm, the touch as restraining as it is comforting. He doesn’t know what to _do_. He has his dagger, but he’s useless down here while they’re up there; he doesn’t have enough coordination to fly and fight at the same time like Jaehwan does.

“If we can just get him down here… If I could just…”

This time it’s Wonshik who restrains him. He’s one second away from shifting, although he’s not even sure what into; his skin feels fuzzy and he knows he needs to do something. “Stop, Hakyeon. You’ve done enough.”

But he hasn’t. He hasn’t done _nearly_ enough. In fact, all he can do is watch and he sees, as if in slow motion, Taekwoon raising his sword and bringing it down on Jaehwan’s as hard as he possibly can. The _crack_ of the metals meeting each other sounds so much like thunder he flinches. He sees the horrible expression on Taekwoon’s face, hatred combined with desperation combined with exhaustion, at the same time that Jaehwan realises Hakyeon is conscious again and they lock eyes. Jaehwan’s telling him something, or trying to, but Hakyeon can’t understand. All he knows is Taekwoon raising his sword for one more blow, bringing it down right where Jaehwan is—

But he falters on the downstroke and the sword falls not with him driving it but with gravity, and Jaehwan, with an elegance that belies how exhausted he is as well, kicks Taekwoon in the chest with all he’s got.

“Hakyeon, no,” Wonshik screams, but time is still in slow-motion so it’s easy for Hakyeon to shove him backwards and out of the way, the others going with him.

Taekwoon hits the roof and lays still.

For a heartbeat, nothing moves.

Hakyeon starts running.

_He has nothing to lose he has nothing to lose he has nothing to lose_ , he thinks as he sprints across the rooftop towards the figure, trying to pick himself up from the ground. _But neither do I._

Taekwoon manages to get to his feet, but he’s swaying and his face is pale, paler than Hakyeon’s ever seen it. He only has a moment to take this in before he’s dodging the desperate, frantic swing of his sword, but it’s easy; Taekwoon is utterly exhausted and they both know it. He slides underneath it and comes upright behind Taekwoon, facing his back. The wound where his left wing once was is ugly and raw and still bleeding, but it’s not this that Hakyeon is paying any attention to. He isn’t paying attention to the way Taekwoon’s started begging, either. He hones in on the remaining wing, its blood-splattered white feathers still, somehow, so beautiful.

His dagger slices through the base of it and it falls to the ground to join the other, what once was sacred being no more.

Taekwoon’s in the process of turning when it happens and as such their eyes meet. For a moment, absolutely nothing happens; it’s as if the world is frozen again, even though he can hear someone screaming from behind him, can hear Jaehwan’s wings beating at the air. But then, slowly, the black bleeds out of Taekwoon’s eyes, down down down to just his pupil, and he looks so human Hakyeon suddenly can’t breathe because it was easy to justify this when he looked so alien—so like a monster—but now, this? Who is the monster here?

His world disappears in a silent explosion of light.

He has the strangest sensation of being flung head-over-heels backwards, and is only faintly aware that he’s bouncing across the concrete of the roof—his hands reach for something, anything to stop him from disappearing off the edge, and he slams face-first into what must be a chimney of sorts instead. He wraps his arms around it and closes his eyes, but it’s no use; he can still see the bright light, so bright it makes his brain feel like it’s leaking out of his ears—is this what an atomic bomb is like? Was Taekwoon ready to explode like this all this time?

There’s no sound, that’s the strangest thing. Just that awful, awful light, and the feeling of lavender blasting against him. No screams. He doesn’t know where the others are, if they were blown off the roof; he only has to hope they’re holding on, too. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, but he can still see those eerily-human eyes, can still feel Taekwoon’s touch in his mind, and wonders if he’s gone quite mad.

It ends abruptly—one moment he’s being assaulted and the next he just isn’t and the world is normal once more. Or, should be normal. When he lets go of whatever he was clinging on to and rolls onto his back, he realises he can’t see anything, not even when he waves a hand in front of his face. He’s effectively blind. It’s then that he remembers reading once about flash grenades made with magnesium and realises that this must be the supernatural equivalent—if such a thing is even possible.

So instead of panicking and doing what he instinctually wants to do, which is shapeshift his eyes better, he just lies there and catches his breath instead (mainly because he knows shapeshifting won’t work, not now). It’s not until he turns his head to the left, listening as he hears the crunch of shoes on concrete, that he realises he can see something. It’s just shapes, the distinction between the dark night sky and the light of the roof, but it’s a start. He slowly clambers to his feet, still holding the dagger, and listens.

He stands over Taekwoon for ten minutes before his vision returns well enough for him to see what’s happened. He forms slowly, like someone’s wiping vaseline from Hakyeon’s eyes; at first he’s just a flesh-and-blood shaped sphere, and then Hakyeon can make out where his head is, and then the details begin to come in. But once he can really, properly see what he’s done, he almost wishes he was blind again.

Taekwoon is curled up in a ball, his arms wrapped around his legs, clutching them close to his chest. He’s naked. He’s bleeding profusely from his back, which means he’s lying in a puddle of his own blood, the same puddle that Hakyeon’s standing in. He’s crying quietly, staring straight ahead, and it’s the most pathetic thing Hakyeon has ever seen before. With his eyes like this, normal, and with no wings, he could almost pass for human. But it’s not until Hakyeon thinks this that he realises what feels so _off_ : he cannot sense Taekwoon, not with his immortal senses. Normally, whenever he was around before, Hakyeon felt his aura, light and airy but somehow still sinister, always accompanied with the smell of lavender. Now there’s nothing, and he really could be standing over a human as far as his immortal senses are concerned.

With no emotion—he is simply not allowing himself to feel any—he takes the dagger with both hands and raises it, intending to plunge it into Taekwoon’s heart. If that doesn’t work, he’ll cut his head off. Not even an angel, former-angel, whatever, can heal from that. His arms are trembling and he closes his eyes so he can’t see what he’s about to do, an empath until the bitter end—

And is stopped by an arm wrapping around his waist, the touch so deliciously familiar his legs nearly give way. After all of this he hadn’t really expected he or Jaehwan to make it out of this unscathed, and yet here they both are; when he pulls Jaehwan close he’s relieved to find both of his wings are unharmed. He somehow feels even _more_ attached to them now, if such a thing was possible. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, feels Jaehwan start laughing. “We did it.”

“Not just yet, my love.”

He pulls away and crouches by Taekwoon’s head and Hakyeon clutches his dagger to his chest like he’s clutching at his pearls. Of course. Of course Jaehwan should be the one to do it; this is his battle, after all, his life that’s been continuously ruined over and over again. It’s finally over.

But instead of summoning his sword, or taking the dagger, Jaehwan just puts a hand on Taekwoon’s shaking, clammy forehead, and closes his eyes and smiles.

Hakyeon just stares for a moment. Is this a pre-murdering ritual? Some weird true immortal thing? Has Jaehwan finally lost it? Or is this all just some fucking hallucination that Hakyeon is having after dropping acid with Sanghyuk? Speaking of Sanghyuk, where is he?

He turns to see them limping towards him, all three, looking exhausted and dirty but uninjured. Sanghyuk’s smiling and Wonshik has an expression of rabid, well, rabid _something_ , on his face, but the moment Hongbin catches sight of Taekwoon on the ground his smile falls and he pales. “What have you done?” he gasps, juddering to a halt and staring at Hakyeon like he’s the devil incarnate.

Instead of explaining himself to Hongbin—because, really, it should be pretty evident what he’s done—he turns back to Jaehwan, expecting to see him with sword drawn. But he’s still just kneeling there, a hand on Taekwoon’s forehead like he’s pretending to be Jesus blessing his apostles, and at this point it’s getting creepy so he sidles up to him and touches him on the shoulder and asks, quietly, “What the hell are you doing?”

“There’s no use killing him.” At this, Hakyeon takes a step back like he’s been burnt, his heart stilling in his chest. “He’s been stripped of his powers. He’s nothing.”

“So end him,” he says, a part of him dying inside at advocating for murder—but Taekwoon has had this coming for a long time. “What the fuck is the problem?”

Jaehwan stands up, his face smoothed into the blank emotionless mask that Hakyeon hates so much. “He will not die. He’s not living, not really. He’s nothing. He’s not angel, he’s not human. He’s not mortal, but he’s not immortal. He can’t die, but he can’t truly live, either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” Jaehwan says slowly, “because this is a worse punishment than death.”

Silence falls upon their little group and they all turn to look at Taekwoon who, at this point, has stopped crying and instead is lying there motionless. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that he’s naked. He doesn’t even look like he knows where he is. The horror of what Jaehwan has just said dawns on Hakyeon abruptly and he takes a step back—it’s so hypocritical of him since just a moment ago he was arguing for Taekwoon’s death, was about to do it himself, but at least death is final. What Jaehwan’s saying… is beyond cruel. It’s heartless. It’s exactly what Taekwoon deserves.

_And yet_ , something in him whispers, _you saw how lonely he was._

For a long moment he wars with his thoughts. Death is the easy way out, but it’s also exactly what Taekwoon would fear the most—as a being that would never have to _think_ about it, it’s probably not a concept he’s familiar with. This? The idea of leaving him here, to exist not as a mortal but not as an immortal, cast from Heaven with nowhere to turn? It’s horrific and barbaric, but Hakyeon can’t begrudge Jaehwan the fact that for a millennia at least he’s been hunted to every corner of the earth and he’s entitled to whatever revenge he sees fit, and if this is what he wants to enact, who is he to object?

As he turns and walks away from Taekwoon, he shrugs off the guilt and holds his head high. This is what Taekwoon deserves. This is all the pain he’s dealt—Sanghyuk’s death, Wonshik’s near-death—being dealt back to him tenfold. This is him reaping what he sowed. He doesn’t let himself think of how lonely an existence that must be. He doesn’t allow himself to think of how it had felt inside Taekwoon’s head, either. Instead he feels, rather than hears, Jaehwan turn and follow him and, shortly after, the others, too.

It’s finally over.

_Epilogue_

Right before the sun rises, Hongbin slips away from Hakyeon’s apartment and makes his way to the roof.

The dawn is threatening, but he isn’t afraid of that. He has plenty of time to get to cover. And besides, after what happened tonight—well, he deserves to be able to risk it all, now that he can. Everything he does now is on his terms, not dictated by fear of what some angel might do from where he was watching in the wings.

Taekwoon, of course, is gone. There’s a bloody trail leading to the edge of the roof and, when Hongbin peers over—very carefully, since a fall from that height wouldn’t kill him but would hurt like hell—he can see there’s a large blood splatter on the ground, too, but no body to be seen. He’s either died (unlikely) or has crawled away to die, and either option means he is no longer any concern of Hongbin’s.

Sanghyuk finds him as he’s crouched over the puddle of blood, a finger in his mouth. He tries not to look guilty but fails, and Sanghyuk knows what he’s up to anyway. “Taste nice?” he asks, with just a hint of amusement.

“You’ve got no idea,” Hongbin murmurs around his finger. The only thing stopping him from dropping to all fours and lapping at the puddle like a dog is his self-control, which has come leaps and bounds in just a year. If this is what angel blood tastes like after it’s been on a roof for hours, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about what it would be like drinking directly from one. He’d probably die again and go straight to Heaven.

Sanghyuk flops next to him. “They’re being so disgusting that I’m pretty sure Wonshik is about to throw something at them, if he hasn’t already. Personally I’m hoping it’s something good, like a bottle. Or a piece of furniture.” When Hongbin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even react, he sighs. “What’s wrong?”

“You should have seen him,” he whispers, and shudders. He can’t help himself. “After… After both wings were cut off.”

“What did he look like?”

They know each other so well now that Sanghyuk knows Hongbin isn’t talking about what he saw with his eyes, but rather with whatever stupid fucked-up aura sensing ability he was cursed with long ago. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he answers truthfully, and closes his eyes. “It was like looking into a black hole. There was _nothing_ there. Not black, not white, not even grey. Just a complete absence of colour and feeling and scent. Nothingness.” He hates how he’s crying, _hates_ it, but what he’d seen has left him feeling so rotten he can’t help it. “Normally I see souls. That’s what the auras are. This was just… emptiness.”

There’s a long silence where Hongbin can feel Sanghyuk watching him, but he doesn’t turn to meet his gaze, just wipes at his tears. He should be overjoyed that this is all over. He knows Sanghyuk is; the moment he’d gotten downstairs he and Hakyeon had looked at each other and burst into tears at the same moment, holding each other close and sobbing out all the relief that this hell was finished. And he is relieved, in a way. He was never the direct object of Taekwoon’s hatred—he was the only one spared in that sense—but that didn’t make him any less afraid, especially as he felt what Wonshik went through, saw what Sanghyuk went through. And yet he can’t imagine what it would have felt like, to lay there like that, without a soul. It wasn’t even that he had humanity. Hongbin can’t really see human colours but he can sense that they’re there—which doesn’t make any sense even to him, but it’s just how it is—and this was a complete absence of anything he’s ever known. He feels like a child once more, holding onto his mother’s hand as he stared at a man who walked past, a man who looked light blue and who smelt like flowers and who was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

“I pity him,” he says eventually, because Sanghyuk is the one person he can say this to and not get judged for it. “That’s all.”

Sanghyuk reaches for his hand without saying a word, and that’s how they stay until the sun rises, sitting on that rooftop in front of evidence of Taekwoon’s fall, giving him this one moment even though, logically, they both know he doesn’t deserve it. But it’s getting late. Hongbin’s never been one to harbour hatred in his heart, and now the threat is over, he can spare a few minutes of pity for a ruined creature who could not see what was coming to him through the blind veil of his own malice.

“Come on,” Sanghyuk says as the sun is threatening to burst over the horizon. “There’s been enough horror for one day. I don’t want to hear you whining about being burnt for the next week.”

So Hongbin turns and follows him to safety, letting him lead the way.

//

Jaehwan half-expects Hakyeon to do something poetic once they retire to bed, like declare they stay up and watch the sun rise together, the dawn of a new age or some such thing. But instead he slams back a red bull, strips naked, dives into bed, and makes himself into a burrito made of blankets. “What,” he says upon catching Jaehwan just standing there staring, “are you doing?”

“Don’t you want to, I don’t know, say a few words?” Jaehwan crawls onto the bed and hauls the burrito into his lap, biting back laughter at how small and how cute Hakyeon looks with just his face visible. “I mean… This is kind of significant. For you _and_ for me. But for me especially.”

“What do you want me to say? Taekwoon’s an ass, he got what was coming to him, the end?” At that, Jaehwan starts laughing. “See? You can’t be serious _all_ the time. We’ve had more than enough seriousness for our whole fucking lifetimes combined.”

“You’re right, as you so often are,” Jaehwan replies, leaning down to let his lips brush Hakyeon’s forehead. “And you continue to surprise me.”

“If a day comes where I don’t do something to surprise you, or vice versa, we’ll both know we’ve lived enough and I shall order Wonshik to kill us,” Hakyeon declares with the confidence of someone who will do no such thing, not least because he can’t order Wonshik around to save his life. “Now get into bed.”

It’s pointless to argue that he can’t since Hakyeon has stolen all the blankets, so instead he lays down next to him and pulls a wing over himself. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Hakyeon breathes, his eyes glowing yellow as he extricates his arms from the blankets to loop them around Jaehwan’s neck, tugging him closer. “We’re finally free of all this bullshit that’s been following us for a year. This is the beginning of the rest of our lives, Jaehwan. And I wanna start it the right way.”

“Screaming my name?” Jaehwan murmurs as he nibbles down the side of Hakyeon’s neck, feeling his hands wind into his hair.

“You know me too well,” Hakyeon growls, and drags Jaehwan into a kiss that’s heated, passionate, fueled by relief and lust and love and all the good things in his life that Jaehwan never thought he deserved but that he finally, finally has.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> bet yall were _s h o o k_ when this wasn't tagged major character death huh
> 
> Well. That's it. The end. Bye, cya later, thanks for coming!!!
> 
> lmao... sort of. It's the end of this plot. Everything is wrapped up. The threat is gone, they're free to live their lives. So in a way, yes, it is the end. But I'm not quite finished with incubus, and nor is it finished with me. This is the conclusion of what I've been titling part one in my head—part two will begin after a short interlude in the form of Jaehwan's (and Taekwoon's, sort of) backstory, which I've had written for ages but couldn't work out where to shove into the narrative. My motivations for this are long and murky and unfortunately I can't really tell you bc spoilers (but if you really wanna know, feel free to dm/@ me on [ twitter](http://twitter.com/hakyeonni/) and I'll tell you everything!)
> 
> Now here's a fun fact: when I first started realising taekwoon was becoming the villain of this series (because I am an idiot and did not plot anything out at first; I only started plotting short-term from like instalment 4 onwards and then long-term from instalment 8. Here's a protip for yall: don't do that) I was just like eh i'll kill him off no big deal. Right? Wrong. Apparently I developed a conscience. _Killing him off would be too easy_ , I said to myself. _and wouldn't you feel guilty?_ So here we are. He lives—sort of. Pretty miserable sort of existence if you ask me!
> 
> Part two will not be as long as part one and there won't be as much angst; (I haven't started writing it yet but I can already tell you from what I have plotted out in my head (so don't worry, you don't have to sit through another 200,000 emo words LOL)) it's just a way for me to tie up my loose ends, I suppose.
> 
> So. I feel kind of strange, now. Even though this isn't the end it sort of is and it's a scary but good feeling to wrap it all up. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope you've enjoyed incubus up to this point. Most of all, I hope you don't hate me for not ending it here and I hope you're looking forward to what I have planned for part two!
> 
> (fun fact about the title: when I first heard this rammstein song, months and months ago, and looked up the translation, I knew instantly I wanted to use that particular line for the title of the chapter of incubus where taekwoon got his comeuppance. and now here we are months later and i'm fulfilling that particular promise to myself. go me)


End file.
